Short+Fiction

After five years, I am able connect Scott’s life with the story written by David Shannon, __No David! No!__ The main character, David, is always getting in trouble. He seems to forget the rules at home and his mother is always yelling, “No David, No!” When I read this book for the first time, I thought the author was writing about Scott. I have many stories that connect Scott and David, but let me enlighten you with the latest one. The most recent event happened just the other day at Scott’s pre-school. I arrived at 4:30pm and before I could enter the classroom, Scott’s teacher stopped me suddenly in the hall and explained to me what my “angel” had done today. My reaction was, “What did Scott do now? Did he have a tantrum?” “No!” replied Ms. Bashira. “Did he push another student?” “No!” “Did he throw anther chair at you?” “No! Amy.” Frustrated with me, Ms Bashira with a stern voice said, “Please calm down and let me just explain! A police officer visited the classroom this morning to discuss the importance of car safety. He gathered the children around him in a circle and began discussing the reasoning why children less than 80 pounds should sit in a booster seat. Before the police officer could continue his discussion, Scott blurted out ‘My brother does not sit in a booster seat and he only weighs 62 pounds!’ The officer addressed Scott with, ‘Make sure you tell your mother starting next year she will receive a ticket if your brother is not in a seat.’ Scott replied, ‘I sure will.’ ” I thanked Scott’s teacher for this information and proceeded to walk into the classroom. As soon as I put one foot in the door, Scott saw me and yelled, “Mom, the police officer wanted me to tell you he will give you a ticket if Will does not have a car seat by tomorrow!” After I chuckled under my breath, all I could do was hug my son and say, “I love you so much and don’t ever forget that.” . My husband and I decided to take the children to Applebee’s for dinner because kid’s dinners were 99 cents. As soon as we entered the restaurant, I gave the host our name as he informed us our table would be ready in about ten minutes. While we stood there, Scott roamed around the sitting area and suddenly screamed, “Mom, look! That is the officer that told my class he will give you a ticket if Will does not sit in a booster seat.” The police officer, and four other police officers joining him for dinner, immediately looked over at us and gave my husband and me a quick smile. I was mortified. I decided we would exit the restaurant and order car side to go! After that encounter, I headed to the local Wal-Mart and purchased, you guessed it, a booster seat. My darling Scott has now stopped badgering me about buying the car seat. He has moved on to another dramatic, frustrating event for all of his family and friends to witness, if he still has any.
 * No Scott! No!
 * On October 31, 2000, my adorable son Scott entered this world. When he was born, I never imagined he would turn out to be the next David.
 * On October 31, 2000, my adorable son Scott entered this world. When he was born, I never imagined he would turn out to be the next David.

Amy Valentas

HERB LORE Slowly ever so slowly Julie pushed the heavy oak door open. She was entering forbidden territory and she was thankful once again Granda oiled the iron hinges on the tall doors regularly. She was well aware from repeated warnings that she was not allowed in the library alone –especially at night. Yet tonight she had given into the soft mind whispers that called “Come to me. Come to me.” Standing just inside the door, she glanced hurriedly around the cavernous room. It was lit by what seemed to be silvery moon glow, but like all of her kind Julie was well aware of all the moon’s phases. It was the dark of the moon. So what lit the room? Then she found the source. High on the top shelf in the far corner a single tome glowed filling the library with cold silver luminescence. “Could this be the book that even Granda feared to open?”, Julie wondered. Of all the books in the Granda’s mystic collection was this the one most to be avoided? Julie walked hesitantly to the corner and looked up. She thought she heard soft singing urging her to go closer. Maybe she did hear it. Granda guarded the room’s secrets well, Only the fully initiated could enter freely without his guidance, but even they hesitated to do so. Grabbing the rolling library ladder, she moved close to the corner and began to climb. The singing became louder. She glanced around and leaned toward the book. Then she gasped and pulled the book toward herself. Suddenly .she was standing on the library’s marble floor without any idea how she had arrived there. She walked quickly to the door and slipped out closing the portal behind her. Minutes later in her room, snuggled in her comfy bed, she opened the book. Convinced it would tell her secrets of the loupe garou which was her clan, the title disappointed her. It sounded a bit boring. What was so secret about a book titled Herb Lore::the magical properties of growing things. Book II The Dark Side, Still she began to read, but her eyes began to droop. She slept. The humming vines began to grow.



by Melanie Bitler
 * Surely God is in this Place**

“What do I need to do tonight?” Miranda queried of herself as she traversed the 30-mile commute home. Then she mentally began to rattle off her to-do list: “I have to do laundry because Carley needs clothes and we are about out of clean towels. Crap, Miranda, drive faster. I have to pick up Carley and I am already behind. What should we have for supper? Like it matters, because Ryan probably won’t be home to eat it anyway. That means I will have to feed the dog. Stupid dog. Call Mom and check on Daddy. Let’s see, I have to write that research paper for class. I need to get home to do that. Drive faster. Ryan needs to help me with dishes if he is home; after all, he’s been complaining about no forks and the smell that only he notices. I wish he would just do something about it instead of griping to me. Cripes, today is Pat and Jackie’s anniversary! Tomorrow is Mom and Dad’s. Can I get to the florist in time? Drive faster! Crap I have the Republican forum tonight! Drive faster! What else can be piled on my plate?”

Miranda wheeled into the florist’s parking lot dismayed when she saw the closed sign. She would have to backtrack to the mall to find a card and hopefully some other token of her affection for her grandparents-in-law. After battling with a Honda for a parking spot and walking across the asphalt in the stifling July heat she browsed through the mall probing her mind for gift ideas. Scanning all the stores from Dillard’s to J.C. Penney her creativity sunk. She could not locate the perfect gift. She would just have to settle on something, anything. Her mission took her by a massage parlor. “When did they put that in?” she mused. Miranda had never experienced a massage. Didn’t she deserve one after all the hassles that had challenged her today?

Collapsing on the table, she surrendered her body to the therapeutical hands of the masseuse. Time and worries seemed to melt away like butter on pancakes right off the griddle. The masseuse kneaded her aching muscles. “How did she get those moves, those hands?” A half-hour later she ambled away from the table quite mellow. She snatched the first anniversary cards she spied and purchased them. Miranda decided she might have to have a massage more often. Certainly her body was less tense. She could now face the evening and all the tasks lying before her.

The following day Miranda started off at a bustling pace once again. Practically sprinting through her morning she wondered how she could be running late already. Somehow she survived the day but never seemed to catch up. Traveling home she experienced deja vous from the day before. The stress hung on her shoulders like a yoke with 500-pound weights on each end. “Think, Miranda. What can you write three pages about? You kept the log today; now think of a unique way to write that up, hah! Thank God I got paid this morning, but now comes bill paying. I think the MasterCard is due next and I can’t forget the house payment and cable. Think! You have to start your research, too. How can you write a paper, clean house, be at the hospital, and take care of Carley all at once? Think!” She severely needed to think about what color the traffic light was. A cacophony of horns bore her back to the green glow of the light. She mobilized the car at 5 miles per hour under the speed limit instead of over. She realized she desperately needed to slow down before she drove 80 miles per hour into a mental breakdown.

Driving aimlessly she turned right from Woodlawn onto 29th. She viewed a large parking lot with those fake wooden park signs that she recalled from childhood trips to Lake Toronto. “What was this place? How long had it been here?” Miranda had never noticed it before. She stumbled out of her car and down the various trails. Finding a walking bridge with benches, she absentmindedly eased onto the bench trying to shake the clutter from her mind. Not knowing how long she stared at the water’s reflection shimmering on the worn gray wood of the bridge, she strolled deeper into the lush forest taking in the kelly green foliage. She suddenly discovered the noise of serenity. The air echoed with trickling water and chirping crickets. If only Miranda were still and quiet enough she might hear the flap of birds’ wings. The breeze rustled her hair gently, cooled her brow and evaporated the dew of sweat there.

Meandering back to her car substantially calmer, Miranda pondered, “I wonder who made this oasis. Who could have grown all those swaying grasses and shady trees? Whoever was responsible could not have forced the wildlife to dwell in this city prairie.” She could now endure her evening duties. Life was good and she would face a new day with a fresh start tomorrow.

“Another day of the same old, same old,” Miranda mentioned to herself the next morning. The days seemed to run together in one colossal mixture of busyness. On top of all her routine chores scheduled for today, she would be visiting her dad in the hospital after class. She pulled into the low-ceilinged parking garage, minor claustrophobia settling in causing her to duck her head going under each beam. Hospitals were not her idea of a hot date but she could visit Daddy. She needed to visit Daddy.

Miranda’s mother hung around in the sterile, blasé waiting room obviously agitated when Miranda arrived. Enveloping her mother in a hug she plopped down in the chair. It had been a long day like most, and Miranda really just desired the comforts of her own air-conditioned home. Her mother gently took Miranda’s hand in her own. “Miranda, honey, the doctor just made rounds. The test results concluded that Daddy has cancer.” Her mother said a few other things but Miranda did not hear any of them. Mom’s voice had a muffled quality like she was down a long dark tunnel. Rapid fire thoughts buzzed within Miranda’s mind making her stomach lurch. She couldn’t be sure if her vocal chords were really working, and her hazy mind concealed from her whether her thoughts were to herself or out loud.

Finally after an eternity of silence Miranda determined that nothing had come from her own pursed lips. In a choked voice, she commenced an interrogation like a lawyer with a key witness on the stand. “What does this mean? What are we going to do? Where are we going from here? When can they wake him up? When does he start treatment? How long does he have without chemo? What are his chances with chemo? How long does it take?”

Questions were far more abundant than answers. She needed to be alone. Seeking refuge, she left her mother and staggered drunkenly down the hall her coffee brown eyes blurred with hot stinging tears. With no destination in mind she rushed randomly down long narrow halls not pausing to read signs or find out where she was going. Where could a soul find respite in a hospital surrounded by people? She craved to be alone; she needed to be alone. Careening past wheelchairs and beds she burst through ancient solid oak doors.

Glancing around, Miranda established that some spirit had led her to the chapel. Her footsteps echoed on the mahogany floors as she walked solemnly to the altar. Kneeling, she attempted to pray, but only broken ideas floated through her mind.

“Oh God, why is this happening? I know you have a reason for everything, but God, I wish you would reveal your plans. When will he be off the ventilator? Inoperable lung cancer… God, only you know. Will he go through with chemo? Please God!” Miranda continued to sob and her wails reverberated around the sanctuary. As she leaned on the altar a peace that passes understanding descended upon her. Cried out she rose and with a revived strength left the chapel and climbed the stairs to her father’s floor. She must be strong for her family and fight this awful disease right alongside her dad. Miranda contemplated, “Where did I unearth this renewed strength of spirit? How did I find my way to the chapel?”

With her soul refreshed she returned to her mother’s side and eventually drove home abounding in spiritual peace. However, all the calmness she had mustered in the church must have hiked out of her that evening when she drug her body through the curtained glass door with the brass nameplate. Entering her home she wanted to crumple on the floor, but there wasn’t room. Toys were flung haphazardly everywhere. “Carley is in the packing, dumping, and repacking phase,” Miranda reflected. “I really have to go to the bathroom. If I can avoid the clothes strewn everywhere and not trip over the retarded cat...” In horror she surveyed the bathroom with kitty litter scattered everywhere and Carley sitting in the middle of it. “Ryan,” she shrieked, “Come in here now!” She grabbed Carley up and began stripping her down. Ryan stopped short in the doorway. “Get a towel out,” she commanded. Carley got her bath early and it would be a miracle if supper didn’t necessitate another one.

Miranda was furious with Ryan. As she stomped into the kitchen, she banged pots, pans, and doors while cooking. They were having hamburger again. The freezer was full of hamburger and that is all they had. She usually rummaged in cookbooks for new recipes involving the mediocre meat, but tonight time and creativity constraints would not allow it. The longer she fried the hamburger the longer she stewed. “Why couldn’t Ryan help out more?” her brain lamented. In her heart she knew that he was busy working 48-hour weeks plus overtime but still she toiled away at work and then came home to cook, clean, and care for Carley. “I have to do more laundry tonight. It is a cycle that never ends. I have to bathe Carley. I have to cook supper. I have to feed the dog. I have to water and clean up after the cat. I have to vacuum, sweep, mop, and dust. I have to pick up everyone’s messes and do dishes. I have to give Carley her bottle. I have to pay bills. I have to run errands. I have to mow the yard.” The situation was not a new one. She placed Carley in her high chair and ate standing up in the kitchen with her daughter. To cut the angry silence in the house would require a hacksaw.

The battle between forgiveness and anger waged within her heart. She crept into the bed beside Carley fatigued and brokenhearted. As she lay there mentally forming her prayers, she could not concentrate on speaking to God when her heart was so heavy. A sleeping Carley rolled over and unconsciously snuggled against Miranda’s side. That is when she knew without a doubt that everything would work out. Her heart swelled like Carley’s small innocent chest with each breath, except Miranda’s heart did not drop with each exhale. Miranda prayed, “God thank you for this Heaven-sent creature by my side and her father. I didn’t know my heart could physically ache from being so full but what a wonderful ache.”

Morning sunshine on her face awoke Miranda. Bustling through her routine she sank into the driver’s seat of her Impala. The commute always gave her time to ponder the mysteries of life. This morning she contemplated the week she had survived. She had undergone a tense body, a crippled mind, a malnourished spirit, and a broken heart. Along the path she had hit upon various techniques to overcome these obstacles. However, she did not possess the money for a daily massage, the time for a daily trip to the nature center, or the location for a daily visit to the chapel. Although she could hold Carley every night something else always called her attention away from the darling babe. Finally like the luminous sun at her back, the concept dawned on Miranda. Tranquility is not something that we find outside of ourselves; it comes from within. Miranda knew that her daily struggles would not just disappear. She recalled someone telling her once that God does not promise to remove troubles, but to stand by us through them. Surely God was in this place! “God lives with me!”

A Good Trunk

I’m driving east on I-70 back toward Missouri at about 3:30 in the morning when she wakes up and starts to kick the back seats and trunk lid. My first thought is relief that this is a rental car and not my own or my dad’s. Who wants to clean up when you can just dump the car in the river? But it’s a shame to have to do that because not too many places still rent old cars from before they passed that law about the inside trunk release lever. Maybe you wouldn’t think it, but that law really complicates a wise guy’s life. And every time we have to ditch an old rental, it gets harder to find the right car without stealing one. But back to the real problem, right here and now—what to do with the kicker in the trunk. I expected her to wake up eventually, and I don’t want her dead or anything. But she has to understand that you don’t take off on my little brother like that. When you get engaged to someone in my family, you stay engaged. So I pull over where it’s quiet which takes me about twenty miles out of my way. That kind of pisses me off, but I can’t just pull a kidnapped girl out my trunk on the interstate. When the car stops, she does more than kick. She starts screaming. I have to shut her up and calm her down before I open up because it’s always better to have the guy in your trunk cooperative. That way you don’t have to worry so much about what happens when you open it—in this case, dodging a swinging tire iron, maybe, because I forgot to take it out, or having to muscle her back in the trunk, or if I’m really unlucky, having to chase her down or shoot her. Usually a guy in a trunk senses his disadvantage and develops the virtue of patience where he might not have it otherwise. Amazing how someone stuck in a dark, enclosed space changes his plans and life goals so quick. Some guys go the other way, though, completely insane. This is why you don’t hear about too many live guys in car trunks, I guess. So I need to open a trunk with a screaming, kicking, live fiancée-in-law stuffed in it. I’m pretty sure she’s not packing because of what she’s wearing, but I have to admit that I didn’t search her before I put her in there. Actually, it was kind of cute because I caught up with her when she pulled over and fell asleep in her own car (which is pathetic because if she marries my brother, she can always stay in a nice hotel). I watched her through her window before I opened the door and chloroformed her while she slept. I carried her like a sleeping baby into the trunk of my car. I even put down blankets and brought a pillow. From her point of view, that’s probably a bit like giving her a blindfold for her execution, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. Now she’s reminding me why I had to use chloroform: she’s yelling really loud, “Help me! Help me! Kidnapper! I’m kidnapped!” I don’t blame her for being upset, and she can’t know there’s no one around to hear her. I start to feel a little sorry for her. I love my brother and all, but he really can be an asshole. I try to stop myself from feeling this way, because I absolutely hate when the line between right and wrong gets all blurred by family obligation. I guess the truth is that I can pretty much see the line all the time, but it’s not a good idea to keep looking for it or nothing would ever get done. In order to calm her down, I have to yell. I pull out my Glock with the safety on. I mean, I have no intention of using it. But I hate feeling out of control, and for me the gun means control. First I have to get her attention. “Hey! Shut up! Calm down!” “Fuck you! Let me out, you son of a bitch!” I can see why my brother likes her—she makes life exciting. Who falls in love with a doormat, you know? I stay quiet at first in order to assess the situation. “Let me out, you prick!” It occurs to me that she might not know who I am—I didn’t know whether she registered who was holding the cloth over her mouth before she passed out. And I know it sounds like her insults might make me mad, but this is actually a good sign (and I have been called much worse). She’s talking directly to me and not just yelling that she’s been kidnapped. We’re starting a kind of dialogue, communicating. I decide to enter the conversation. “Shut up and we’ll talk.” “Fuck you! Let me out and then I’ll shut up. Help!” “No one’s around to hear you. Shut up.” We went back and forth like that for a minute. She must recognize my voice, because then she starts to get personal. “You’re no better than your brother! You see why I wanna get away? Did you kidnap your own wife? Drag her by the hair to your cave? “Shut up!” I answered. I really want her to be quiet, but I think I see where this is going. And I don’t like it. “Did you put her in your trunk before you went out and buried her? Is her body somewhere near here? How did you do it?” “Shut up!” “Shoot her? Stab her? Strangle her with a phone cord?” Now she’s trying to piss me off, and it’s working. Some advice: if you ever find yourself in a position similar to hers, it’s generally not a good idea to taunt your captor with touchy details from his past. I have pretty good control of my faculties, but not all guys who are willing to kidnap someone have that same level of self-control. “I’m not letting you out unless you’re quiet and calm. Then maybe I’ll tell you about my wife.” It’s an accident that I say this, but it catches her curiosity enough to make her stop screaming. “When you’re quiet, I’ll open the trunk. It’s that simple. If you keep screaming or making noise of any kind, I’ll get back in and drive.” Quiet. “You hear me?” Nothing, then: “I thought you didn’t want me to say anything.” A smartass. Good, I think to myself. I like that. But this isn’t a good time to let her know that I’m starting to develop a personal attachment to her. “I want you to answer my questions. Can you hear me?” “Yes.” “I will open the trunk. I have a gun pointed at you. You will show me your empty hands and slowly climb out of the trunk by yourself. Do you understand the plan?” “Yes.” I want to keep her guessing for a little while, and I know she’ll hear the key in the trunk lid, so I put the key in the lock without opening it and leave it there for a few seconds. I expect her to start talking again before I open the trunk, but she stays silent. This makes me pretty nervous. I wonder what she has planned. Of course, she’s just doing what I ask her to do. I’m not so arrogant to assume that I will come out the winner here if I don’t keep my guard up. I twist the key and push the trunk open. The small trunk light is just enough to show how tired and scared she is. None of her bravado while she kicked and screamed is still there. She lies in a near fetal position at the bottom of the trunk. The dim light shows her smeared mascara and glistens off what I assume are tears on her cheeks. I didn’t noticed crying in her voice through the trunk lid and the yelling, or maybe she didn’t start crying until she quieted down. I don’t know either way, but I’m a little touched. She must have ditched her wedding dress, and she’s wearing a short, strappy evening dress that under different circumstances would have been sexy. This is probably the outfit that she was supposed to wear when she went out with my brother on her wedding night. She must have figured that it was slightly less conspicuous than driving around in a wedding dress. Any guy who saw her out dancing in this getup would find it anything but inconspicuous, but right now with the smudged makeup and teary cheeks it just makes her seem more pathetic. I stand back so she can’t reach with anything she might swing at me and point the gun at her. She leaves her head down on the pillow, and I’m stupidly relieved that she used it. “Show me your hands, please, before you get out.” I said “please.” Not exactly protocol, but this is an unusual incident. She pushes her open palms out toward me which makes her shoulder take her weight and dig into the uneven surface of the trunk floor. She looks really uncomfortable and grimaces. “Try to keep them where I can see them and slowly climb out of the car.” I take a step forward so I can see her better. She puts one hand down to help push her to a half-seated position. “Watch your head on the lid,” I warn. “You throw me in here and you’re worried about. . .” “Shhhhh,” I put the barrel of the gun to my lips. “Remember our deal.” I wiggle the gun in my hand a little to remind her I have it. This makes her self-conscious, like a kid trying not to wiggle in church who forgets for just a second and gets yelled at by Mom. Another wave of sympathy swells through me as I realize she’s just a kid, at least 10 years younger than I am. She has to put her hands down to scoot toward the edge of the trunk and push her legs out the back of the car, but I don’t say anything. In spite of her attitude earlier, she doesn’t look like much of a threat at this point. When she gets herself steady on her high heels, she remembers to put her hands up. “You can put your hands back down.” “You sure you trust me? I might pull out the gun I have under this dress and put a cap in your ass.” “I did not say you could start talking. Shut up.” I move the gun around again, so she shuts up. Of course I don’t think she has a gun, and I decide to start smoothing things out between us. Those books and movies about gangsters make it look like there’s some sort of handbook or guidelines to follow in situations like this. But no such thing exists. I’m just making it up as I go. I decide to play it cool as possible. If she runs, she’s not getting far in those shoes, so I calmly put the gun back in my belt and walk right past her to the driver’s side of the car. She could be watching me, but I don’t know because I don’t look at her. I lean back against the car and light a cigarette. I turn to her and offer her one. Her heels slowly click about three steps on the pavement and she takes it. So she’s leaning on the car next to me. She puts the cigarette in her mouth. I look right at her, and it’s a good thing the cigarette is kind of stuck to my bottom lip because my mouth comes half open when she leans toward me to light her cigarette on mine. Even with her heels, she’s not as tall as I am, so I have to turn my head down while she turns her face up towards me. Her eyes catch mine as she grabs my cigarette and holds it still while she lights hers. I have been trying not to find her attractive up to this point, but for some reason I find this cigarette-lighting thing really hot. So now I have to turn my head away. I start trying to get these thoughts out of my head because the last thing I want to do is get involved with my little brother’s girl. She didn’t run away from the wedding because he found out she’s a skank or anything like that. She ran away, I’m guessing here, because he hit her, or he slept with someone else, or most likely he just tried to tell her what to do and she didn’t like it. In every sense except family obligation, I’m trying to take her side because anyone who spends much time with my brother deserves at least that much. “So what do we do now?” she asks with smoke curling around her nostrils and lips. “I take you back, I guess.” “I’m not going back.” “Look, sweetheart. . . It’s not that simple.” “Get in your car and drive away. That’s about as simple as you can make it.” “I know you’re not that stupid. I feel for you. I really do. But he’s my brother and you stood him up at the freakin’ altar. Even the priest was pissed. Nothing like this is simple in my family.” “I’m not going back. I don’t care.” “At some point, it stops being about you. My ass is on the line here if I don’t bring you back.” “You tell someone you found me?” “As a matter of fact, yes. I called as soon I. . . we started back to St. Louis.” “Shit.” In that curse word, at least, I sense a little sympathy for my predicament. She understands that we’re both more stuck than we want to be. We each light another cigarette, nothing sexy this time, and we think quietly while we smoke. “I didn’t kill her, by the way,” I say. She looks at me, caught a little off guard. I clarify. “My wife. An accident. An actual accident. I can’t say much more than that. But if you’re thinking the accident had something to do with the life, you’re right. If you live with a wise guy, there’s a chance for an accident. I loved her, and I would have left St. Louis and the family and everything if I had known it would happen. I really would have.” She stays quiet for minute, stares into the darkness. “I’m sorry. Why can’t your brother say nice things like that?” This is not a question I can answer, so I flick my cigarette on the gravel, take out my gun, switch off the safety, and hand it out towards her. She just stares at it. “Shoot me,” I say. “In the leg or something.” “What? I mean, I heard you. Why?” “I’ll tell my brother you got the gun for me and shot me. You ran away. I had to drive myself to the hospital. I’ll get some shit for it, but he’ll know you mean to stay away, and Dad won’t ask me to come after you again. They’ll respect it, as long as I don’t die.” She still stares at the gun. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get back to St. Louis and get patched up. You walk up this road about forty-five minutes until you start to see some houses.” I stick out the gun again towards her, and she takes it, more out of the shock of the suggestion than out of any resolution to do it. When she has the gun, I take my money clip out of my pocket and give her about $700 keeping a couple hundred for myself. “Go to Wal-Mart. Buy yourself some jeans and a shirt. Go back and get your car out of impound. Call my cell phone from a pay phone next week and I can get you some more money.” “Why are you doing this?” she asks with a confused smile. I think about how a guy stuck in a trunk will change plans when he realizes he’s not in control. I also notice that she never argues about shooting me. I decide that the safest and most convincing way to do this is for me to sit down in the driver’s seat and have her shoot my right thigh from just outside the passenger door. I pray she doesn’t hit the bone and that if the bullet goes through, that it goes through the seat and not my other leg (or other sensitive regions near my thigh). I also hope I can still drive and wish I could have her shoot my left leg. I explain this to her and she says she’s pretty good with a Glock. I really like this girl. “That gun’s already untraceable, but you probably ought to wipe it off and throw it in a creek as soon you get a chance.” “OK,” she says. “Thanks.” We take our places, me in the seat and her standing next to the car with the passenger door open. “Better say goodbye now,” I say, “because in a minute I don’t think I’ll feel like hanging around for a hug or anything.” She scoots into the car and sits down next to me. She kisses me on the cheek and puts her right arm around my shoulders, more out of pity for what she’s about to do to me than out of any kind of real affection. Probably my brother already screwed up that possibility. “Thank you,” she says softly. She’s nothing if not grateful. She gets out and I stare ahead at the windshield. “Don’t warn me. Just do it. You sure you’re all right with that gun?” “Shut up. I’m fine,” she says. I did, and she was. My brother actually seems a little scared of her now. He calls her all sorts of names, but he won’t go looking for her. My leg hurts—a lot. But really the only shame of it is that I bled all over the seat, so we have to ditch the car after all. Pretty soon, there won’t be any good trunks left.

by Steve Maack

__The Beauty in a Thump__ //Amy Morrow//

Driving up I-70, as Meg headed for some rest and relaxation in the glorious and vast mountains that seemed to engulf the speeding cars, she began to hear a loud thumping noise. Her first thought was, “Just great! Where am I supposed to stop and check the tires, or worse change a flat? In the bitterly, cold mountain spring water of the unforgiving creek that roars and races along the highway, as if trying to make it to the bottom of the peak first?” Meg remembered how her father was always trying to teach her the basics of changing a car tire and how she never had time. “I have better things to do, Dad,” Meg would always say. Her dad would always reply, “Someday, someday.” At that moment, Meg had wished that she had stopped and taken the time to learn this important skill. She stopped her daydreaming and decided to drive a little further to find a stopping place since the thumping continued to be more frequent. Up ahead of her, she eyed a picnic area access road. Meg slowly began to apply the brakes of the rental car. As she came to a stop, she noticed that the thumping became louder and came in intervals. Meg decided to get out of the car to inspect the shiny wheels of the luxury rental car that was hers for the weekend. The tires were all full of air and no flat tires could be found, so the decision was made to continue heading towards “The Spa”. Meg climbed into the car out of the sweltering heat, and all of a sudden, THUMP! She looked in the rear view mirror, and to her horror discovered a rather large bump on the trunk that looked “like the beginning of a pitcher’s mound on a baseball field”. The car she was driving was a brand new, shiny, midnight black, two-door 2006 Lexus that was the first in the line of rental cars being offered from Hertz. Meg’s first thought was, “Oh, my god! What is going on? The rental company is going to kill me!” Her thoughts soon moved to, “Not only am I upset about the trunk of this very expensive car being damaged, but I am scared of what may be in the trunk!” The thoughts raced rampantly through her mind “like wild untamable horses running through the mountains”. Thoughts of a ferocious black bear foraging through her luggage whizzed in her head. If the bear was looking for food, it would be disappointed to find Crest toothpaste and Noxzema face cream. Unless, the bear was a vegetarian, it would not be very satisfied. Then, Meg thought, “Oh no! If that is all it finds, I will for sure be in big trouble.” Abandonment of the car began to be considered. Can’t! Won’t! Concerns about a black bear, shifted to the possibility of the thing in the trunk being a mountain lion. Meg was in a mountain area and this was a possibility. She was afraid that if the mysterious thump was a mountain lion that it would pounce at the first sight of her. How could this have happened? Did it crawl in while packing and the viciously, strong wind shut the trunk on the lion? She didn’t want to know or find out. Meg quickly called 911 for help. Soon the rangers and police were at Meg’s side to help her solve the mystery. The rangers asked Meg why she was standing outside on such a hot, sweltering day. Meg replied, “I’m not dumb enough to get in a car with a potentially dangerous animal. I have too much to do and accomplish in life!” The rangers and police tried to calm her nerves and told her that things would be o.k.. Tranquilizer guns and nets were ready for the animal in the trunk to pounce when the trunk was opened. After seeing Meg’s anxiety, the ranger slowly opened the trunk. When the trunk opened, Meg screamed a ghastly scream out of fear of what might jump out and turned away from the trunk. Laughter erupted with the rangers and police. The police officer asked Meg, “Ma’m do you happen to sell beauty products?” She replied, “Yes, why do you ask?” The rangers and police replied in unison, “Because your vicious animal turns out to actually be exploded aerosol cans of hair spray and shine spray. The only danger that you were in was the chance of having a can of hairspray catapulted at the back of your head.” As Meg looked inside the trunk, she observed the huge mess of aerosol cans that had exploded in the trunk of the car. The sweltering heat of the day and the change in altitude had caused the contents to explode. So from that day on, the “beauty” never traveled with aerosol cans in the trunk of a car. The story ended on a happy note and the Beauty discovered the “beauty in a thump”!

Gossip

The two old white haired ladies dressed in print dresses and matching pink tennis tottered out to the rocking chairs of the Sheltering Pines Home front porch after a stirring morning of bingo. It was time to have a rest. Amy sat and rocked quietly thinking of her past life. Life had been more fun when she was still able to add a notch or two to her bedpost. She closed her eyes and sighed softly reliving the memories of good times past.

Melanie was rocking as fast as her pink tennied feet could go. Rocking was faster than walking in her walking frame. She enjoyed a good fast rock, but she enjoyed gossip more. Leaning over she stopped rocking and tapped her friend, waking her.

“ Aymeeee! Aymeee! Wake up, gel. Johnny Depp is never coming here and I’ve got news.”

“ What is dang blasted important that a girl can’t dream? It was good one you know about the night I ate at the Creek River House. That was a hot one. Heh, heh.”

‘ I heard that Sharon. Hmmm! Hang on a minute. It’ll come to me.”

“ Sharon who? That ditzy blonde nurse or the screw loose redhead that roams the halls carrying that baby doll?”

“ Shush, Amy. Let me think> No, It was Sharon the dyed blonde in room 325. She went to el dorado to visit her son.”

“So that’s why I am awake. You old looney.”

“ No-no….. she was crying when she came home. So I asked that prissy Cna that looks like she sucks lemons why?”

“ Get on with it Melly!”

“ I guess her son ---he is sixty0eight

told on the way to Walgreen’s he was getting married again. She got so excited that she well.” She leaned over and whispered in amy’s ear.

“She dropped her underdrawers!” Amy screeched.

“No you idiot. I didn’t say that! “Melanie retorted slapping amy on the arm. “I said I heard Sharon her drugs in El Dorado.”